the Politics of the ‘Here and Now’

[A rewrite of the earlier poem after a tip from Daniel Paul Marshall –pc]

portraits hang on walls; dusty | the ticktock of a clock marks time | a generation consumed in quarter notes; the rhythm of coffee cups and saucers; spoons and trays | parlors where they speak of the dead;  empty of hope—full of sorrow; lamenting the passing of a cycle | spirits on their journey down the river Styx pay tribute to Charon | “You May Pass—” into the abyss

clouds fade across the sky | flames rise on hearths; embers of extinction glow; pop | leave smoke and residue on mantels; sad | still the family portraits smile | music from ancestral accordions dispatch breath; send circles of blackbirds to perch on musical staffs; time beats the drum | a slapping bass

exasperation sends word through ticker tapes and a news conference | plaintive cries heard over the din of emotion | radio waves echo the shattered glass of Cristal moments and forced kisses ::ribbon cutting ceremonies portend confinement; a bobble-head doll’s spring; broken | chocolate liqueur and heart-shaped confections; with fortune cookie wisdom; written in red ink; busted | waves break in confusion over the lot of the privileged; love horns | destitute billionaires cast their ballots on Wall Street | desperate for cash

a view from the top—of an Empire below the sea | a warming global refuge | listless guardsmen on course to oblivion sail boats to an angry horizon | empty sockets in electric mayhem—ordered by stooges; make a captain’s mess | the crew works the night-shift to find the morning dew flooding the pantry; eating all the food | leaving behind crumbs; oaths sworn in a paradise they once called Borikén | keel-hauled

you walked out the door in a midnight rage; the house still staggering from the slam of the door | crazy and still dreaming of fortunes that nest behind walls ; hidden | a last testament to the child left behind—a mill in Minnesota; a factory in Duluth; a farm in Massachusetts | a brick in a New York high rise worth it’s weight in gold; sand salt and a copper sea ::but dreams are for wakeful reminisce; as the Empire crumbles with the dust from falling towers | debris has become my currency as I scrape dog shit from my shoes | scratch and sniff

no one brings salvation like a mad monk from the Palestine | but the sun beats down on the infidel; rocket ships send conspiracies to the moon | light-years get measured in dollars; astronauts circle the hemispheres and take snapshots of hurricanes; massive typhoons | women stand and piss on ivy-covered walls—a new cultural awareness; abandoned on principle | we never gave a damn

shop for bomb making tools on afternoon siestas; in Madrid | guilty merchants hunker down in basements; SWAT teams break locks—piece together evidence planted by detectives; “Shoot to kill—” | buses transfer the homeless from the NY boroughs; to the DC swamp | lighthouses shine the way to nirvana—for equality is more than just freedom; it’s a fixation on the politics of the here and now | Alan Watts

loan sharks send French postcards; threaten exposure in time-lapse; photography—black and white images tell colorful stories | a name remembered is like a fine vintage; the Champagne of wines | the Citroen of the automobile | the Dauphine of the dolphin ::could the Place de la Concorde exist without a revolution; wheels turn without an emission; Marseilles exist without its port; or a face be remembered without a name? would an explanation be given without an embarrassing moment; preceded by southern exposure? an old song plays on the radio behind each scene | the answer? there never really was an answer | Selah